a ghost in human skin
by Elizabird
Summary: There are explosions in New York and Avengers running rampage around the city, and chaos threatens to bring the hero culture down around the Avenger's ears. But when it goes a step too far - when these copycats become believable - how can Tony Stark trust anyone when he can hardly trust himself?
1. 01 A Beginning Of Sorts

**To all that have come here from my other Tony fic - hello! I'm sorry for the long hiatus, but something happened in real life that distracted me from the internet quite a lot. I logged on yesterday and saw the hits and follows and was suitably ashamed, so have a fic with actual plot! Yeah!**

"If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times. Coffee does _not go in the waffle machine!"_

The new bot droops its camera, mounted on a long shaft, in a general tone of shame. It waves back and forward.

Tony Stark, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, shakes his finger at it irritably. "No. No guilt, no guilt, I refuse to be guilted by a GoPro with wheels. I made you, and there is no excuse for you not to know the difference between the thing that makes coffee and the thing that makes waffles."

"This is an education," remarks Clint Barton to the world at large.

Tony, and the new bot, elect to ignore him.

The kitchen on the communal floor is a wreck, it truly is. Tony had knocked together a few spare parts while under the influence of several cans of energy drink and the high that comes with sassing Fury over a video call late last night. He'd been awake for the better part of the week and only kept going to knock the cigarette lighter away from his new creation before passing out underneath his workbench; when he woke up, a camera with wheels and Captain America were both prodding him nervously.

And so, Lighter was born.

Steve, humanitarian that he is, announced that Lighter was far too cute to be cooped up in Tony's workshop.

Tony argued that his workshop was hardly a _cage,_ and that the three other bots managed just fine.

Steve scooped Lighter into his arms and said that the communal floor could do with a helping hand.

Tony whined that Lighter didn't even have arms, and if it was a hand he wanted, Steve had two perfectly functional ones attached to his arms by his wrists. So give me the bot, Rogers.

Steve ran for the door, and so Lighter had installed itself in the kitchen with little fuss, apart from the _tiny detail_ of not knowing where anything went, how to use anything, or how to properly manage the robot limb Tony had fixed on. Great. Because he had _so much time_ nowadays to spend telling idiotic robots how to do things.

"Seriously. Is this how you treat kids?" Clint continues, sliding his empty smoothie cup onto the kitchen island. "Lighter, go fetch."

Tony stands with a wince. His leg is still sore after last week's shoot-out. "I just think she could function so much better in my workshop. The bots down there have a hive mind, albeit a small one, and if she could just buzz around for a while to get used to existence and _then_ I could introduce her here..."

 _"Sir, Lighter is attempting to put Agent Barton's glass down the drain,"_ Jarvis says mildly from the walls.

Tony sags and trudges around the island to his bot, Clint snorting with laughter in his ears.

He's _tired._ That's the fault of most things these days, but even more than usual. SHIELD is on his case about him designing them new tech, lifesaving stuff that Tony can't just blow off. He's tried his best - honest, Fury, I did - but he isn't sure about any of it. More than usual, anyway. And his own company is yapping at his heels for something, anything to sell to the dumb public, like Tony isn't busting his ass Avenging, maintaining his damn suit, making stuff for SHIELD, and attending all his stupid galas and charity dinners.

He whipped off a new design last night to keep them happy, some sort of smart car that didn't need a driver. It should keep the blood-hunting investors off his back for a while, anyway.

"Jarvis? Hook up to Lighter, get her aligned with the kitchen models." Tony rocks back against the island and stifles a huge yawn, his neck burning from leaning over his workbench for several hours last night. This morning. Hm.

Clint yawns too. "Man, I'm beat. Nat's still in SHIELD, giving a review. Can you believe? We were in Dubai for two weeks, hadn't slept for, like, four days, Fury and Hill call us as soon as we get in and tell us to give a report. I noped the hell out of the headquarters."

"Nat will kill you," Tony tells him sincerely.

Clint sighs. "I know."

Behind them Lighter bumps into a cupboard on her way to a safe corner to communicate with Jarvis. Tony groans.

"Lighten up, man, or Steve'll make you do robot sensitivity training," is Clint's parting shot as he claps Tony on the back and sidles out of the kitchen. (Presumably because they hear Natasha coming up on the elevator.) (Or rather, Jarvis told them in low tones she was coming up on the elevator.)

Tony crumples on the kitchen island, a puppet with its strings cut, no audience to indulge in his pity-fest.

 _"Sir, I would recommend six to ten hours of sleep and vitamin supplements, which I have placed in the second drawer of your bedside locker,"_ says Jarvis hopefully. Hah. Like Tony's going to do anything the healthy way, right?

Tony grunts at his butler. The last time he had taken Jarvis at his word and actually done what the AI said would be best for his health... the last time he'd done that was right after Afghanistan, when he was still as bedbound as the doctors could make him and drinking his weight in vitamin and mineral supplements. And look where that had got him. A sucker punch of a betrayal, right to the jaw.

 _"Sir, I really do think-"_

Tony pulls himself up, holding on to the island for support. "Don't have time, Jarv. Is my tablet in the room?"

 _"Yes."_ The disapproval in the synthetic voice stings like hell, but Tony is adamant. He has to do _something,_ and firing off a new weapons model should keep Fury sated for at least a week. Maybe something from that Bond movie he went to the premier of last week. Coulson, at the very least, would appreciate something like that, right? And in the week Fury's busy with the Bond gaget... In that time he can get the board of directors to leave with a better developed smart car, fix up the Iron Man suit, keep maintenance going on Steve's bike, and maybe grab a few hours in between.

And when he staggers into the adjoining room, the living space where at least one Avenger or super-powered Avenger-in-waiting would always be lounging, there's two of them. He wonders where the others are.

Today it's Natasha, lying with her head on the cushion, her back stretching up the seat, and Clint's neck between her ankles. Clint's swatting her knees and apologising between breaths; Natasha sipping a coffee calmly.

Oddly enough, this is quite a regular occurrence. (Not as common as Spiderman's habit of sleeping on the ceiling, which was that little more disturbing than the weird espionage flirting those two got up to.)

"Hi, Tony. There's a new bot," Natasha says coolly. She untangles her ankles and Clint falls over the back of the sofa, landing softly on a heap of pillows Natasha kicks under his head. Clint moans unintelligibly.

"There is." Tony looks around as Lighter rumbles smoothly from kitchen to his side. "Hey, Jarv, you got her calibrated all good?" _Please, say yes._ Tony can't deal with toddling robots today, not with the suit maintenance hanging over his head.

 _"There should be no more problems, sir."_

Tony breathes a sigh of relief. "Thanks, buddy." Tony leans over and pats Lighter's smooth arm ball joint - in response the bot rolls back and forth and squeaks happily. Natasha smiles at her (the assassin always had a soft spot for Tony's bots) and downs the rest of her coffee in one gulp.

They sit in surprisingly comfortable silence. Tony opens a smaller version of the holograms in his workshop, spreads them across his knees and drops a few parts across the side of the armchair. Lighter wheels over to it, beeping questioningly; if Tony concentrates, he thinks could feel the hum of Jarvis answering the bot's internal questions.

Jarvis is probably telling Lighter all about what the bot can do to help out around the tower.

Hm.

Tony, for his part, opens four design specifications for various terrible, failed gadgets. His fingers drum on the case of his tablet. If he takes the design from _this_ stun-grenade watch, and the laser from the Super Laser Pointer Pro ( _pointlessly make fun of your pets for hours!)_ and _this_ resistor from _this - whatever the hell this is,_ Tony thinks despairingly. Is it another product of too little sleep and too much artificial energy?

Probably.

But with a few flicks of his fingers, a Frankenstein of a James Bond tool sits in hologram form on his palm.

Tony beams at it. It'll keep Fury busy for a few days just trying to find out why the fuck Tony would design something this useless, and in that time he can fix his suit and get started on Steve's bike.

And he'll hopefully get to laugh at a SHIELD agent wearing a laser watch.

In fact, if this design ever gets past Fury's highly paranoid preliminary examinations, only Coulson and Clint would ever have the gall to wear something this tacky.

Tony pinches a resistor hologram and pulls it out of the blown-up design on his lap, tossing the little blue dot over the side of the armchair. Lighter beeps again, and again, Jarvis hums.

"It really is cute," Clint mumbles, wriggling around on the sofa so his face isn't smothered in Natasha's cushion heap. "When did you make it?"

"Made her last night. Wait, no, night before." It's disturbing, the amount of effort it takes to tick the clock back forty-eight hours. Steve crashing in, kidnapping his bot like an interfering war hero... _Steve._ "Hey, where are the others?"

Natasha prods the TV remote with her toe. Housewives of New Jersey starts playing, which is secretly one of Tony's favourite shows to watch when he's trying to pull a stupid all-weeker stunt. "I saw Steve in HQ when I was there _on my own-"_ a small kick to Clint's head, a muffled protest - "I think Bruce mentioned something about a biology meet in Manhattan yesterday night. Thor's in his little palace. Pepper's in London trying to sell some of your shittier designs."

"Hm." Tony ignores the jab at his tech, an almost sibling rivalry he and Natasha have built, and rubs his temples. Why is Steve at HQ? "Do we have a mission?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"Hey, Shaniqua just punched that bitch in the face! _Go Janice!"_

Natasha and Tony make eye contact over Clint's head. _He's tired,_ Natasha mouths. _More of an idiot than usual._

Tony grins. "But seriously, why was Steve at HQ? It can't have been to see Fury's beautiful face, and he doesn't know any of the other morons that hang around there regularly. All our SHIELD buds are off doing SHIELD things."

Natasha shrugs. "None of our business."

"Hmph." Tony sometimes hates how stolid she can get. Well, not _hates._ He's irritated by it, as someone so naturally curious would be. Whether as part of her espionage training or something more sinister, Natasha has the ability to just shut down all her emotions, retreat into a block of wood. "Aren't you even a _little_ curious?" He wheedles.

"Nope."

Tony pouts childishly, folding the hologram up and sending it in an email to Fury. That'll blow a few minds in SHIELD Research and Development labs, for sure.

Lighter curls up at his feet, fully calibrated. She makes a small humming noise when he scratches her ball joint with the tip of his finger.

A household cat bot.

Well, stranger things have happened, right?

And that's when Shaniqua stops punching that bitch in the face, and Janice and her breast surgery fall off the screen. Clint squawks in protest.

"We interrupt this program to bring you a news bulletin."

Natasha's toe ups the volume a few notches.

"A man, apparently in a Captain America costume, is destroying property in downtown Brooklyn. We await the Avengers to rein in their leader-"

Tony's mouth drops.

Natasha's face betrays _nothing._ (There's someone Tony would hate to play poker with.)

Clint throws a pillow at the screen. "No fucking way. I have to get suited up. Unfair. This isn't fair. I hate it when this happens. Can't the bad guys be someone that _isn't_ Steve?"

And Tony's suit, damn, Tony's suit still isn't fixed.

Hoping like hell that it's not actually Steve breaking shop windows, hoping like hell his suit will function, Tony takes the stairs three at a time and ignores the blackness creeping in at the edge of his vision. He can last another few hours.

He can.

* * *

 **A.N**

 **A bigger AN here, less of an apology, more of an exposition. If you're here from the other fic, hi, please follow/favourite or drop a review or a PM. I appreciate every one, they do encourage me to write faster!**

 **Secondly, this fic will incorporate the wider Marvel Universe. Not to a huge extent, just going to steal a few favourites for some cameos and the main villain is quite a well-known comic bad guy. Reading the comics isn't necessary to get full enjoyment out of the fic, though, I'll have plenty of exposition!**

 **Updates weekly, or as close to weekly as I can manage. Reviews are always appreciated!**


	2. 02 A Lamb in Wolf's Clothing

"Did I do them in my sleep or something, Jarv?" Tony asks desperately, barrelling down the stairs to his workshop and firing commands from his tablet to his suits. "You know, like, sleep-fixing. _Please_ tell me there's at least one I can use to bash the Cap. The Wannabe Cap."

 _"I'm sorry, sir,"_ says Jarvis, apologetic to the last, " _You decided to create Lighter as opposed to fix the suit. Since the last battle only the Mark XV is in working order, running at 88 percent. It isn't advisable-"_

"Don't give me that crap, I'm not an idiot," Tony groans.

 _"No, sir. Regrettably._ "

But Tony doesn't have time to soothe Jarvis' irritated nerves, not when someone dressed as their own dear patriot is smashing streets. It'll be hell for the PR, and guess which Avenger fronts all of that? _Yeah._ Tony doesn't have time to put a band-aid on all of New York and kiss it better because some dickhead got a Cap suit and biceps on his biceps. He has actual work to do.

The suit is waiting for him when he reaches the room. It's unfolded, and it's the work of a second to shrug off his torn work shirt and jeans. He tosses them in the corner and wriggles into the black bodysuit, designed to make the Iron Man as comfortable as possible.

Still not very comfortable.

But, hey, beggars can't be choosers, although Tony makes for a very strange beggar indeed, kitted out in several billion dollars worth of tech and sliding another few million over his face.

 _"Hello, sir."_

"Jarvis," sighs Tony. "Okay, let's go."

He walks until he reaches the nearest window. Clint and Natasha, the Archer and the Widow, will be waiting for him on the roof, as per usual. Most times it's Tony and Clint doing the aerial stuff, Natasha and Steve doing groundwork and Bruce just smashing his way through things, Thor reserved for the same purpose. With their ranks depleted so often, however, joined occasionally by the vigilantes New York is springing to life, they often have to improvise.

Like now, as Tony suspects with a sinking feeling. Great. Fantastic.

"Jarvis, pull up the news reports on the attacker, give me any important details," he says, kicking at the window on the twentieth floor and leaping into the air below him. He drops for a heart-stopping few seconds before the jet propulsors kick in. _A lag? Really? Fantastic._ "Jarvis?"

 _"Yes, sir. The attacker is very clearly not Steven Rogers, as several reporters have displayed. He is smaller and appears to have less brute strength. He is currently holding a jewellery store hostage at gunpoint."_

"Fuckin' fantastic."

"What's fuckin' fantastic, Stark?"

Clint's suited up _already_ and perched on the roof, sunglasses on, arrows slung across his back. Jesus. And Tony thought he was fast. _And_ Clint and Nat haven't slept in four days, apparently, having just got back from a mission.

Tony would pay good money to never become a SHIELD agent. Ever. Ever.

"I'm fuckin' fantastic," Natasha purrs, slinking up the stairs in her black catsuit, her belt hooked with stun grenades and tiny, lightweight guns. Most of it, Tony's designed himself. Her Widow's Bites hang prominent, and he tries to stop himself feeling ridiculously pleased.

 _"The Captain America duplicate has begun making serious threats, sir,"_ says Jarvis, a tone of anxiety in his voice. _"I would advise making haste to the site of the attacks. I am currently trying to contact the Captain, Doctor Banner, and any available associates in the city."_

"This shouldn't be a big fight," Tony assures his AI. Should it? Despite himself, he feels a rumbling of unease in his gut.

It'll be small. Just some punk trying to pull a stupid stunt.

The PR will be hell, but apart from that, there's nothing to worry about.

"I'll jump rooftops, you take Clint," Natasha taps Tony's metal-plated shoulder with the tip of her short fingernails. With a grin and a toss of her red curls, she taps the heels of her boots together twice.

Tony grins inside his helmet. "Widow's slippers."

"Don't let it get to your head," Natasha says teasingly, and makes a running leap for the next building over. (Several storeys down and not half so opulent.) Tony and Clint watch in amazement as she spins and her boots suck her towards the sheer glass walls of - Pym Technologies, maybe - and as she begins to sprint up the wall, Clint whistles.

"Jesus."

"C'mon, Hawkguy," Tony says. He's _proud_ of those gravity boots. Pleased that Natasha would wear them.

And they have a dickhead to beat up, and that always makes Tony's day better. It's like the city is spitting stress balls at him, stress balls that bite back. _Much_ more satisfying.

Clint whoops when Tony lifts them off the roof and over the city. Jarvis keeps reeling facts off in his ear, and Tony considers opening the channel to the three of them, but then realises it would just irritate them. He's used to Jarvis in his ear constantly; they're not. So Tony swoops above Natasha's black dot of a figure, with Hawkeye dangling from his arms, and tries to ignore the lag in his jet propulsors every time he tries to rise and fall.

"Readout?" He asks Jarvis in a whisper. No fear of that being picked up by the comms the other two wear.

 _"Eighty-seven and falling, sir."_ Disapproval from the robotic butler - Tony hates how much his life resembles a kid's cartoon these days. He can't take himself seriously.

"Drop me, Stark!" Clint suddenly yells into the commlinks. Natasha makes a tiny yowl of annoyance.

"What?"

"Drop me, you dumbfuck, if I land on that roof I can get a good aim at the Capstifake!"

With a muttered, " _Capstifake, really,",_ Tony makes his juddering way downwards. Natasha begins running down the side of the building Clint wants to land on, and Tony can see the red and blue suit of the fake Cap. A quick zoom in through his helmet shows the shaking hand and the slim pistol clenched with two white-knuckled fists.

"Dammit, I hope Steve shows soon," Tony mumbles.

Clint hums. "I feel you, bro."

And Tony tries as best he can to steer his fast-failing suit down to the action. He isn't subtle, but the news cameras and circling helicopters mask the sound of the suit, and he lands concealed in a side alley. Natasha's much less conspicuous. Let her get the hostages to safety before Tony starts shooting wildly, right?

 _"Hold it, Iron Man, I'm on the ground,"_ Natasha's voice crackles over the comms. _"Hawkeye. Stay put. Stay ready. Get my back."_

 _"Gotcha back."_ Clint's probably got a stun arrow aimed at the guy's head, but Tony knows as well as the other two that a quick shot could get the perp to spasm, fire the gun, and kill a bystander.

Tony hides, and waits.

 _"Sir. Suit working at eighty and falling. I am now calling the Captain. I will stream the call to your helmet, although I advise you keep silent. Don't arouse suspicion."_

"Thanks, Jarvis," Tony sighs. He can feel the suit giving up, losing the functions from least to most vital. The heating has gone, the cool air stopped blowing over his body, and now he's sweltering and sweating in a giant tin can. He's basically cooking in the summer heat. Soon, his external commlinks will give up, and then he'll be left with Jarvis and his failing suit. Man, he's _got_ to keep up with this thing.

A peek around the corner shows Natasha sleuthing in the shadows next to the Cap impersonator. Tony tilts his head up, sees Clint kneeling at the edge of the rooftop, an arrow nocked and aimed straight at the head of the shaking fake-Cap.

He lets his head rest on the wall behind him. The suit is too damn _hot._ He can't think properly with this pressure in his helmet. "Jarvis, you get Steve?"

 _"Forwarding the call now,"_ Jarvis says, sounding slightly stressed.

Tony slumps further against the wall. The ring of Steve's phone sounds in his ears, too loud, too piercing, hitting his migraine at just the right volume to increase it. _C'mon, Steve, pick up,_ he wills silently. The Captain has a track record of forgetting his phone, or just ignoring it. (He prefers to speak in person.) Please, let that not be one of those times. C'mon, Steve. C'mon.

 _"Tony?"_

"Steve! Thank God. Okay, where are you?"

 _"SHIELD Headquarters, I - Fury wanted to see me, something about the Howling Commandos - what's wrong, Tony? Are you hurt?"_

"Nope, but our shares will if you don't get your stripy ass down to my location. Some dumbass is dressed as you and he's shot up a jewellery shop, holding some citizens hostage. It'll be PR hell if we don't have you down here. I can just _imagine_ the Daily Bugle, they'll have a field day. And that dickhead Senator, what's-his-face, Franklin."

 _"Okay. Tony, I'll be there in five. Who's on call?"_

Tony can hear rustling in the background, and Steve's voice is slightly fainter. He must be changing, pulling on the spare suit the SHIELD guys keep in storage. Coulson had something to do with that. Tony ducks his head around the corner again, sees Clint in the same motionless position and Natasha ever so slightly closer. "It's me and Clint and Nat. I don't think this dude's going to shoot, he's too scared, but he could do something accidentally and we'll be demonised by all the middle-aged white moms in good ol' Murica."

 _"Right. Banner?"_

"At some Biology meet somewhere. I don't think the Hulk is suitable here, anyway." Tony wishes he could undo the clasps on his helmet. A readout in the corner of his eye tells him the suit has fallen to seventy-five with no sign of stopping - in a few minutes he won't be able to talk to Nat, Clint, or Steve. _Fantastic._

 _"I'm coming. Be there in five. Tony, try talk him down if it's safe. Don't endanger yourself, okay?"_

"Got it, Spangles. Don't endanger myself." He feels the suit constricting his shoulders, feels the sun increasing the temperature. Sees the readout: seventy-three. "Steve, gotta go. I'll be totally not reckless at all. See you in five."

Jarvis cuts the call.

 _"Sir, I advise allowing the Captain and the Agents their turn to dissolve the situation without conflict. This is the wise course of action."_

"Yeah, because I'm totally known for my level head and patience, right, Jarv?" Tony sighs, then straightens up. "Okay, channel the power from the propulsors into the air conditioning before I boil in my own sweat. Let's go beat up a white kid."

Jarvis makes a little hum of disapproval but nevertheless, after a few seconds, Tony can relax as a cool breath of air blows across his forehead. He straightens up and once more, leans around the wall; CNN has a camera-copter, CBS has a reporter standing in front of the smashed jewellery shop, and Fox News is just setting up next to the CBS guy. More media coverage! Tony can just imagine all the conscientious bloggers opening documents to begin their rants on the rights of American citizens.

He steps around the building, and for the first time that day, is grateful for the sun that flashes off his suit and draws all attention to him. Including the Cap-guy.

He sees Natasha violently shove her middle finger in the air.

"Hey, guys," says Tony cheerfully. The Fox News woman begins flicking at her cameraman desperately trying to get some of the action.

"Don't!" The Cap-Guy shouts. "D-Don't come any closer or I'll shoot! I swear it!" He jabs his gun at the 'hostages' - two buff guys holding Starbucks carry-outs with disgruntled looks on their faces. Hah. Hostages? CNN didn't mention that the hostages were a buff gym rat couple that could knock Cap-Guy's nose into the back of his skull, if they wanted.

But rippling pectorals probably wouldn't protect them against a bullet.

Tony gestures. "Dude. Who do think you're kidding. You're on _Fox,_ man. They'll put your face on the screen and tell the world you're a misunderstood individual. And that's Fox-code for 'fuckin' maniac'. Do you really wanna make that happen?"

"I'll shoot!"

"Kid, no you won't." Tony glances sideways. Clint's got the stun arrow aimed again, and Natasha's continuing to creep. His comms have given up, but he's willing to bet a considerable amount of his fortune on the two of them cursing him over the air. "Listen, man, why did you pick _Cap?_ Of all the people to dress up as? You could have been me, and people would actually believe it."

The gun lowers. Tony sees the two buff guys begin to edge slowly out of the picture, and hopes he can keep this spinning for a while longer.

"I didn't pick the Captain."

"Okay, kid, great, you can tell this great guy called Nicholas all about it. He's like Santa. If Santa were black and had an eyepatch and a leather fetish." Tony takes a step closer and hears the roar of a motorbike, feels the heat inside his suit pick up a little. Jarvis is trying his best, he has to, but it's not enough. Tony's got to go home, got to lock himself in his workshop and fix his entire life.

"No!" The kid drops his hands to his waist, looks at Tony with a frightening urgency. Tony feels that unease in his gut once more. "No, Mister Stark, you don't understand! I didn't pick the Captain-"

The motorbike growls very nearby. Tony knows that noise, he _invented_ that noise, and estimates that Steve is about half a minute away. "Kid. Kid. Drop the gun and stand down and I swear, we can have this discussion when it isn't being broadcast on national television."

"But-"

 _"And Captain America himself has arrived on the scene!"_ The Fox News girl is having a field day here, screaming it out for everyone to hear. Tony, relief pouring off him in buckets, takes a few clanking steps away from the kid, who's trembling like a leaf.

Steve himself steps off the bike. His shield is slung over his shoulder, his leather cowl hanging from his neck, his goggles bouncing off his chest. "Hey, Tony. Widow. Hawkeye."

"Yo, Cap!" Clint yells from the roof.

Natasha emerges from the shadows and salutes. Somehow she manages to make it look sarcastic. (Hey, that's Tony's job!)

"Hey, kid," says Steve.

The Cap-Guy actually _squeaks_ and drops the gun. Behind the line of cameras and police, the two buff guys are being interviewed. Cap-Guy's lost. "Oh my God! Captain America - I'm - I didn't-"

Steve looks over the kid's head at Tony. His face droops, a kicked puppy, saying _how can people be this stupid,_ and he sighs. "Much as I'd like to do this in public," _God, that sarcasm, where has Steve been hiding that,_ "Son, Iron Man is right. Step away from the gun and come towards me."

The suit really is boiling.

 _Sixty-seven percent._

The pressure will be next to go, and soon every breath will be a struggle. He grits his teeth and stands stolid and waits for Steve to quit the camaraderie so they can go home and do their various chores.

The kid's head droops and the fabric around his shoulders bunches; for the first time, Tony sees how skinny he really is. Skinny, and young. A red-gloved hand pulls off the cheap mask, no Stark-designed leather here, and immediately Tony hears the Fox News woman screeching about how black teens these days are turning to crime more and more.

The kid's eyes look strange for a second.

Tony shudders, although whether from that same creeping unease or something else, he can't tell. He wishes the kid would stand straighter. Do something. Stop shaking, stop looking so panicked at Steve standing solemn as the grave a few feet away from him.

Two officers emerge from the lines of cameras and riot shields.

"I didn't do anything, sir," the kid exclaims finally. "I swear! I - one moment I was in Target, I was buying my mum a present, and then-"

Tony looks up and sees Clint fire a rope from the end of an arrow, looping it around his waist and legs and beginning to lower himself off the roof. He feels the archer's disappointment like a tangible _thing._ Clint's been itching to fight for weeks, ever since those Russian mobster types kicked him out of the flat he was living in.

Natasha walks up, hips swinging, unafraid. She leans down and winks at the CNN camera, which has zoomed in on her ass.

"I don't - I'm confused, I didn't choose you, I didn't pick the Captain -"

Tony's close enough to Steve to hear what he whispers in the kid's ear, although he hopes no one else is. Steve's too damn kind to be in the public eye so much. Steve's too damn kind to be doing stuff like this.

The fight has deflated like balloons once the carnival has packed up and moved on.

"Please don't make them hate you," Steve mumbles, pointing discreetly at the news crews. "You can play this as the misunderstood teen, I know you can, and SHIELD is fair. The Avengers will be there. If you're innocent, we'll make sure those responsible get punished."

"You punched Hitler in the face," the kid says. Awestruck. A fifteen-year-old with his dad's collection of Cap comics - Tony can picture it well enough.

Steve smiles. "I did."

And then there are those black cars that Tony hates, the ones SHIELD drives, and men in grey suits and ties and sunglasses.

How cliché.

He takes a deep, deep breath. "St - Captain, I'm going back to the tower. There's something urgent I've got to do."

Steve nods, although Tony can see the questioning gaze in his eyes.

"We'll stay with SHIELD," says Natasha professionally.

"We will?" Clint whines.

Natasha digs a sharp elbow into his side. "Yes. We will."

 _Sixty-five._ " _Sir, you must return to the Tower,"_ Jarvis says, voice crackling.

With no more words, Tony makes his wobbly way into the air and towards the glimmering shape of his own creation, which shines in the afternoon sun.

As soon as he lands on the roof his fingers find the clasp on the suit and he falls to his knees, the metal clanking off him and bouncing everywhere. He thinks a wristplate might have fallen off the roof, but he can get Jarvis to fabricate a new one.

That kid.

Something about the whole day has been... _off,_ somehow, and it's nothing to do with Tony's lack of sleep and failing suit.

He leaves the broken pieces of metal where they lie and saunters into the building, where the new bot, Lighter, is waiting. She rolls at his knees, seeking a stroke at the joints - Tony is happy to comply. "Something was weird about that," he muses aloud, to Jarvis and himself.

 _"Yes, sir. More light will be shed when the Captain and the Agents return, no doubt."_

"Hm." Tony strokes Lighter and wonders.

* * *

 **ShadowHunter19 - Thank you! And thanks for reading the other story, I'm overwhelmed with how much people seem to like it, so thank you!**

 **A.N**

 **As the story progresses these chapters will get longer, as I publish chapter two, chapter three is already 2.5K and counting. So don't worry about getting a little content with a long gap between chapters, I will keep updating and they will be long!**

 **Please remember to review, favourite and follow, as they really do inspire me to keep writing better and faster. Thank you!**


	3. 03 Reporting the Times

Steve, Natasha, Clint and Bruce come trailing wearily through the door half an hour later.

Tony, who's sitting with holograms stretched across the whole kitchen, a mug of coffee in his hands, and two bots (Lighter and Dummy) at his heels, is more surprised than he should be. Of course, the two SHIELD agents are tired, they've still not got any sleep from their mission. Of course Steve doesn't want to leap into interrogation so soon. Bruce must have arrived at HQ and tagged along.

"Hey, Lighter," Steve smiles at the bot he 'rescued' from Tony's workshop. "Hey, Tony."

"Hi. Jarvis, get that suit into production, okay?" Tony hits save on the holograms and quits the program, the blue components vanishing from the cabinets and worktops. Jarvis makes a hum of assent.

Now that the kitchen is visible, Steve pulls out an island chair and collapses into it. Tony shoves his coffee mug into the super-soldier's hands and watches Steve drain it in one. "Kid not talk?" Tony guesses.

Clint staggers into the living room and falls over the back of the sofa, resuming the position he was in prior to the afternoon's... activities. Natasha snatches the empty mug from Steve, fills it, and retreats. (Presumably to her room.) Bruce begins to potter around with tea leaves and the kettle, but Steve doesn't reply.

Tony repeats, feeling vaguely guilty he didn't accompany them.

"Hm? Oh, no, Fury told us to wait until tomorrow for the interrogation, give the kid time to think. He's in a secure room. I think Coulson got a few words in, though, more of the adoptive father talk. I don't know... he's only sixteen, apparently. Still don't have a name or an address or anything concrete, though." Steve's shoulders slump. "I'm beat." It's rare that Steve will ever admit weakness - teenagers, kids, probably innocents, get him down. Tired. Sick of the modern day.

Tony can empathise. Dummy hands him a single popcorn kernel, presumably in sympathy, and while Steve stares mopily at the space where Tony's - his - Natasha's - coffee mug was, Tony busies himself by meaninglessly praising his bots. At least _someone_ in this Tower had to feel like they'd done a good job today, and it wouldn't be any of the Avengers. There was no honour in arresting a kid.

Hell, the kid's probably been roped into some gang. All they've done is made some stressed mother in Brooklyn fear for her only son, or something.

Tony doesn't realise he's clenching his fists so hard; when he uncurls his hands, there are four curved, red crescents where the jagged edges of his bitten nails have drawn blood. He wipes his hands on his jeans, wincing as the denim scrapes the broken skin. "Get some rest now, then. I'll get Jarvis to wake you if anything comes up."

Steve blinks at him. "Aren't you going to bed?"

Tony _yearns_ to. His mattress is possibly the best in the world, bought for an extortionate price, stuffed with synthetic down feathers, forced upon him for health reasons by an irate Pepper. He longs for nothing more than to sink into a nest of soft pillows and blankets and zone out for twelve, thirteen hours, woken by the glare of tomorrow's dawn through his glass wall. But he has to sigh and shake his head. "Too much to do, too many people wanting my glorious face turned in their general direction. Sorry, Steve, you'll have to go to bed alone."

Steve flushes dark. "That's not what I meant, Tony. You have to sleep _eventually."_

"Nothing's impossible," says Tony with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Lighter beeps mournfully and begins to scoop dirty plates from the counter into the dishwasher. _She's calibrated nicely,_ thinks Tony with distraction, mostly to avoid Steve. When the Captain gets concerned about any of the team, he gets a mournful look akin to the drooping eyes of abandoned dogs, and none of them except Natasha are able to withstand the pressure of such intense empathy.

"Stop looking at me like that and go to bed," Tony says, studiously watching Lighter as opposed to making eye contact with Steve.

The Captain sighs heavily, and a few seconds later there's the scrape of chair legs against tiling as Steve tramps out of the room.

Tony ignores it. Steve needs sleep more than Tony does, anyway, what will all the secrecy going on in SHIELD right now _and_ the stress from earlier on today. Steve's more used to active combat than the sheer weight of the world's shittiness. And all this snooping in SHIELD - the rest of the team has a sneaking suspicion - or Tony and Bruce do, anyway - that it has something to do with Steve's best friend, the dead one in the Howling Commandos. After some prowling in the SHIELD database, Tony's found all the intel suggesting the guy, Barnes, might still be alive.

And a Hydra agent.

Guy just can't catch a break, huh?

"Lighter, can you make me coffee? You're a helper bot, do some help." Tony leans down and strokes Dummy. "Yeah, buddy, you help out too." Dummy may be the most useless helper bot ever, but he's created a soft spot in Tony's heart. Sheer persistence - any other bot might have given up years ago, but not Dummy. Tony appreciates it.

 _"Sir, may I say I agree with the Captain?"_

Tony stares at the roof. "You may, but it's not going to make any difference. Jarvis, I've just finished fixing the suit, and I've got to wait for SHIELD to approve that Bond laser watch thing, and the board of directors-"

 _"You have fixed the smart-car plans, you have made the SHIELD blueprints, you have fixed your suit, and all that remains is for you to maintain a healthy body. It would be disastrous for the team to have an out-of-commission Iron Man, never mind the PR disaster."_

When did Tony make his butler such a snarky asshole?

"You're an asshole, Jarvis."

 _"Whatever helps you sleep at night, sir."_

Bitch. Jarvis is a total bitch. Tony flips the roof off in a vague, tired manner, his eyes drooping, the bots at his heels clamouring for more attention he's too tired to give them. Lighter pushes a huge mug of coffee onto the island, then beeps happily; Tony grunts, tries to say something else, and then his head hits his arms and he's asleep in milliseconds.

XxXxXxX

Tony figures he gets an hour, maybe a little more, before someone gently shaking his shoulders starts him from a weird dream involving Spiderman and a new super-suit. "Whazzat?" He groans, swatting at the hands. "Go 'way. Spiderman."

"I'm not Spiderman, Tony," Bruce's voice. He sounds amused. But something else, too, under the light-hearted joke - stressed? Anxious? "Tony, there's something you'll want to see on the TV. C'mon. Up and at 'em."

Tony groans, but lets Bruce move him from the kitchen island, against the protests of his groaning back and stiff neck, to the living room. Surprisingly, the others are all here, and no one's drunk or in danger of death - Clint's perched on top of the armchair, his legs hanging over Steve's shoulders, the Captain sitting on the edge of his seat. Natasha lounges on the sofa, shifting up to allow room for Bruce.

"Ah. Tony. Can I press play now?" Steve asks.

"Sit down, Tony." says Natasha.

Tony moans loudly. His neck is _killing him._ He really does need to stop falling asleep at desks and tables and underneath things - he really needs to stop passing out from exhaustion. He's too tired to walk around the sofa; he just throws himself forward and hopes he lands on something soft.

He does.

It's Bruce.

"That's the best we're going to get out of you, I suppose," Steve sighs, looking at Tony with something unreadable in his eyes and a tiny smile on his face. "Sorry. This isn't great news, especially for you."

"Just play the damn thing," says Tony. He has a feeling he knows what it's going to be, anyway, and prolonging the torture is just _annoying._ He could be sleeping right now. He will be sleeping. Soon. On Bruce, preferably; Bruce likes to wear fluffy knitted sweaters over plaid shirts, and the sweaters are the warmest things Tony's ever forcibly slept on top of.

"Okay." Steve aims the remote and jabs it harshly with his thumb.

 _"-And, reporting live from central New York, Abigail Ferry is here with the latest breaking news concerning our very own Mighty Heroes, the Avengers. Abigail, what can you tell us?"_

As the camera cuts to the live reporter, Tony shifts his head. He can see himself in the background, standing, overheating in the metal suit. Thank God he managed to pull off the look as 'stolid and expressionless' as opposed to 'dying of exhaustion and heat'. There's Clint, on the roof, and there's the building Natasha was hiding in front of.

And there's the kid.

 _"Thank you, Farrah."_ Abigail sweeps her hair away from her face. She seems excited, which irritates Tony in some vague way. Since when has this part of his life been something to be excited about? Sure, scandal about the rest of him, but not _this._ Iron Man is the closest Tony has to a sacred being.

"Here we go," mutters Clint.

 _"Well, it's tense here next to Tara and Fair Jewellers, who just half an hour ago were held by what the owner, Tara Hill, described as "Captain America." As you can see, this alleged Captain then tried to escape before riot police from the NYPD surrounded him. The Avengers arrived on the scene five minutes ago, but, crucially, there's no sign of Steven Rogers, the Captain himself."_

Cut back to the studio. It's not so bad _yet,_ Tony thinks. At least they haven't started bringing up Natasha's KGB history, like CNN did last year. Man, did _that_ get pulled quick.

 _"Thank you, Abigail."_ Farrah, with blonde hair piled on her head, and a chic blue dress that manages to have a high neckline and yet show off almost all of her cleavage, shuffles paper smugly. Like she isn't reading all her lines off the autocue. A dumb parrot. _"Now, what have the Avengers done since arrival?"_

 _"Well, Farrah, that's the thing. Hawkeye, the secret agent many believed to still be under the influence of Loki, has aim on the crowd here. It's unsure if he means to shoot this Captain America, or us innocent bystanders."_ Abigail lets her baby-blues widen, mist with surprise.

Clint grips Steve's shoulder so hard Steve squeaks a little.

 _"Oh, Abigail."_ Farrah raises her hand. Like the reporter is in an active warzone, and not in a relatively secluded, exclusive shopping street in New York. Like three out of the six _actual Avengers_ aren't standing right there to do their job - protect. And serve. _"And, Abigail, does the situation show any sign of changing?"_

 _"Well!"_ Abigail turns around, giving the camera a long shot of her shapely ass, tight in a dress with the same revealing modesty as Farrah in the studio. _"Well, we can hear the signature roar of the Captain's motorbike, and - oh, gosh, as ex-Soviet spy, the notorious Black Widow, displays profanity in front of the nation's cameras - yes, Iron Man is stepping forward! Iron Man, famous - should I say, infamous - billionaire Tony Stark, created his alter ego after an unstable period of activity-"_

Tony hears his own quip mirrored back to him.

 _"Don't! D-Don't come any closer or I'll shoot! I swear it!"_

"Anything _useful_ in the rest of the report?" Clint asks, voice steely, face set hard. Tony makes a face at him. Suddenly, he doesn't feel so much like sleeping - he's going to have _so much_ ass-kissing to do to make up for this.

Natasha shakes her head. "They say Tony shouldn't have sworn on national television and used innuendoes, then they broke out the black-boy-from-the-hood narrative. Nothing else."

"Great. This is _all_ I'm going to hear at that fucking Cancer Charity Gala on Saturday night, isn't it?" Tony allows his eyes to close and press into his hands. "Fucking hell, Senator Coyle is going to be there. Asking me what I'm doing to reign in my urges. Make me sound like a nympho in front of Michelle Obama or Adele or something."

"We can trust you to handle the PR side," Steve says. Tony knows he's dependable, at least for that if nothing else - if he starts ranting about Senators and famous people and how much of a disaster his life is, he'll do it.

Clint nabs the remote and switches the mute TV off.

"What'll we do about the rest of it?" Bruce asks into the silence. The blank TV seems to be pulling at their words, revamping them, messing them up.

 _Hawkeye, still under the influence of Loki._

 _The notorious Black Widow._

 _Created after an unstable period of activity._

 _Infamous billionaire Tony Stark._

To stop himself ripping the cloth of his jeans, which he was clutching too tightly and too painfully, Tony leans over and places his palm on Lighter, who rolls up obediently to meet him. The bot's body buzzes faintly, reassuringly, a comfort. Tony created her. Lighter is just another thing he _hasn't_ messed up. "We'll sort this out. This is nothing, guys. Chill."

Steve looks hesitant. It doesn't suit his face - the emotion flickers around, unsure of what to do in the unfamiliar surroundings. "I don't know... Tony, this feels off. The whole thing. I think we should go and see the boy at SHIELD tomorrow. Hill will let us in, I know she will."

"I was _going_ to. I just... I don't know." Tony won't tell Steve about his own rumbling discomfort with the whole situation. His discomfort with the _now._ He stands, stretching, his back popping painfully. "I'm going to go to the workshop. Pep's probably been calling me. Trying to sell that damn smart car to the board. C'mon, Lighter."

The camera with wheels trundles forward and hits his ankles.

Tony leaves the room too hurried. He leaves the room with the Avengers sitting around a blank television screen, tense and agitated and silent.

XxXxXxX

 _"All I need is another design. One more, a little more detail, and shares are up three percent."_

"Pep, I _can't."_ Tony sighs and rubs his face, smearing grease over his cheeks. They're coarse - he'll need to shave before the Charity Gala on Saturday. He sees the disapproval on her face, her lips pursed, her fingernails tapping on the maple desk of the hotel room. "I've got nothing. Give me a day."

She sighs and stands. He sees her hands, smooth and freckled, hovering over the escape button. "You have three hours before I have to give this presentation. Give me _something_ to show, _please._ I can't keep trying to sell thin air."

Before Tony can retort, she hangs up.

He allows himself thirty seconds. Half a minute with his hands braced against the edges of his scarred, familiar old workbench, burns he's made himself for years, marks he's made with his own hands. Thirty seconds is all he can afford before he straightens up.

His back hurts. The last time he slept in his bed was some time last week, and he's paying for it now with stiff movements and screaming muscles. His head throbs. It pounds in rhythm with the beats of his heart, which, as always, is a little too fast and a little too weak. God, does he long to be anywhere but here right now.

He breathes.

"Jarvis, send up the smart car holograms, set a timer for two and a half hours, and remind me where I put the Ibuprofen, will you?"

 _"In the third drawer on the left hand side of your desk,"_ says Jarvis wearily. Blue holograms hum into life around Tony's ears as he digs around for the crackling plastic packet - there's only one pill left in, which he pops out and swallows dry. Not enough for one dose, but it'll have to do until he can sneak stronger painkillers past the ever-maternal Bruce, in residence in the kitchen with demands about safe health and remembering which drugs did what.

Hah.

"Okay, she wants details? I'll give her details..." Tony cracks his knuckles, glances quickly at the timer.

 _Two hours, twenty-nine minutes, thirty-one seconds._

He can do this. "Right. Details? Leather seats, that's detailed, and if you want a nap, I'll install mini-Jarvises in the cars."

 _"Sir, please do not."_

Tony laughs despite himself. "Don't worry. Just checking to see if you're paying attention."

 _"I am omnipresent, sir."_ Is that affection in the robot's tone?

Tony smiles at the camera closest to him, right where Jarvis can see. "Yeah. Omnipresent. That's you. Hey, what do you think constitutes details of a smart car...?"

XxXxXxX

The man in white, dressed in a well-fitted pinstripe suit, sweats.

He tries to be inconspicuous about it. He raises his hand, pretends to scratch his head, and swipes his sleeve over the damp patch on his forehead.

"The kid was a mistake."

"Yeah. America's not going to believe their golden boy would ever go rogue."

The man in white perspires through his suit. Thankfully it's too dark to see much of anything, except the lights illuminating the silent man in the sombre mask.

"I still think we should go for the school."

"Hm. Maybe. Our next target?"

"But the Avengers are our best subjects! We should go for the captain again-"

The man in the mask shifts in his chair, which lets out a tortured squeal. The darkened circle of people fall silent, but the masked man says nothing. His fingers are steepled. He sits upright in his chair, stiff and silent.

"We could go for the Hawkeye one. People suspect him already, of being rogue." The voice sounds timid.

"No. We don't know his real name, his history, his anything. The assassins are out. We need someone influential, but not the Captain. He's too good. No one would ever think he could just _snap,_ just like that..."

The man in white sees where this is going, even if the people in the dark circle do not.

His breathing is quick.

"Friends," says the masked man, speaking for the first time and commanding all the attention. "We know who we must turn to. The end goal. The school, yes, as a practice - the Captain was ill-advised. Too hasty."

The man in white stands; he knows what is expected of him.

"The school, then," says a voice from the dark.

The masked man leans back. His voice holds a self-satisfied smirk. "And then. Mister Smerdyakov?"

The man in white nods, and his breathing is shallow and quick and he mops his brow and wonders when he'll be allowed out of the centre of the circle of darkness and voices and dangerous, dangerous decisions.

XxXxXxX

Tony's got the radio on in the background as he makes himself a waffle. (As Lighter makes one for him. The bot has taken to the kitchen appliances like a duck to water, no calibration issues whatsoever any more.) He's actually willingly making tea, because something about the smooth aroma and warm taste makes him incredibly sleepy - not that he has much farther to go. But Pepper confiscated his sleeping pills, saying something about unsafe drug use and paracetamol overdoses.

Tony doesn't care, but it does mean he has to drink herbal tea to nod off instead of popping one down.

The radio's on because Steve's in the room, talking to Lighter, and Steve dislikes listening to music constantly. He says he feels grounded with a deep voice telling him the news.

Tony's not going to argue with someone else's coping strategy, or whatever Steve likes to call it. "Lighter, give me the maple syrup and the milk," he calls.

"Rude," Steve smiles at the back of the bot's camera arm as Lighter buzzes away. "Hey, Tony, turn it up."

Obediently Tony leans over and twists the dial on the (old-fashioned) radio on the windowsill. Steve brought it with him when he came back from exploring America, along with a heap of other vaguely old trinkets. It's nice, in a way, even Tony will admit. A little bit of the old in this tower, a shrine to the gleaming new.

 _"-And in New York, an attack-"_

"It's just more about that kid," Tony says in annoyance. Steve shakes his head, eyes fixed on the aerial.

 _"An attack on Tara and Fair Jewellers by an unidentified teenager was closely followed by another attack in Westchester, near the location of the acclaimed prep school, Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. Apparently a mutant attack, red energy was seen in the district followed by an explosion, which injured three people, although no lasting damage appears to have been done to two bystanders. One teenage girl, apparently an attendee of the school, is currently in hospital following a broken leg and burn damage. It is unclear who caused the explosion, although many anti-mutants protesters-"_

"Shit. Shitshitshit." Tony hits the off button with his elbow, unwilling to hear more.

His eyes meet Steve's - the Captain looks uncertain, more lost than Tony's seen him. "I don't understand," Steve says, voice harsh and weary. "Why would they dress someone up as me? And why would they fake an attack on Xavier's? By mutants?"

Tony shakes his head, an odd lump in his throat. Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, which had been housing young mutants - and old - since the Cuban Missile Crisis. Led by Charles Xavier, the telepath. Tony had been trialled for education there, after he built a working laser gun for his Airfix model of the Starship Enterprise. They thought his brain was mutated. Until Howard pulled him out, declaring that his boy didn't need fucked-up genes to be a genius.

Tony kept in contact with Xavier for a while, once he was packed off to boarding school and it became clear that his one phone call a week was wasted on Stark Mansion, where the line rang and rang and rang itself off the hook.

He thinks back, with difficulty, to being so short he'd have to stand on tip-toes to reach the phone and talking Charles's ear off about the new technologies.

And every so often he'll get a little email from Xavier's school, just a little catch-up on Charles and his charges. He hasn't got one in a few months, though.

Tony feels sick.

What's _happening?_ This can't be coincidental.

"Something's off about this whole thing," Tony mutters.

Steve nods. "We'll go to SHIELD tomorrow and then the day after-"

"I've got hob-nobbing to do with New York's stuffiest," Tony reminds him. "I'll see what I can do. You see a conspiracy, it's a safe bet that one of those rich assholes will be behind it."

Steve actually smiles, although it's weak and thin. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."

Lighter brings them a heap of fresh, perfect waffles, and hands Tony a cup of herbal tea. He finds that he's not really in the mood, much, anymore.

* * *

 **A.N**

 **I forgot to do this first time 'round, so here we go.**

 **Thank you for all that came here after I put the post on my other fic - I hope you like it as much as the other one. This has a plot and stuff, so hopefully it matches standards.**

 **Remember to review as it really motivates me to start working on the next unfinished chapter, and to post these quicker than planned. Thanks to people who've already reviewed!**

 **Thirdly, I just created a Tumblr blog because some friends recommended it to me. If you'd like to give elizabirdwrites on Tumblr a look ( .com) that would be great!**

 **Thank you all for reading, reviewing, favouriting and following, it really means a lot.**


	4. 04 Miles Morales

"According to Ph- according to _Coulson,_ he still hasn't said anything," Clint says to Tony and Bruce. The spy is accompanying the two on the pretext of showing them the way, even though Tony designed the place and Bruce can easily just follow him. No, Clint is with them to make sure the two most unpredictable Avengers don't do anything stupid.

Hah. Like Clint wouldn't just join in.

Bruce sighs. "I wish we didn't have to do this," he says plaintively. "What do we say?"

Tony looks out of the corner of his eye at the doctor. Bruce looks ill-at-ease in SHIELD HQ, in the most unassuming clothes he has in his wardrobe. Brown corduroys - seriously, who wears those anymore? Are they even still for sale? Does Bruce shop in those annoying, expensive second-hand shops that smell of tea and old ladies?

He totally does.

"We got good cop, we got bad cop, we got scary cop," Clint makes finger guns at Bruce, Tony and himself in turn. "You just gotta say what good cop says."

"You're not Bruce Willis and you're not scary, hate to tell you," Tony jokes. His lighthearted tone is lost in the bland surroundings, the identical corridors and clinical, white walls, and it's sucked into the severity of the silence. Great. He's reminded of exactly why he hates visiting SHIELD HQ. It reminds him of earlier trips to Stark Industries Factories with his father and an entourage of people desperately trying to wheedle money out of them - Tony's favourite were the TyMetal people, who gave him all sorts of toys so he would put in a good word with his father.

Hah. He was five. He just liked the toys. Cheap tat, but much better than the complete lack of tat, cheap or otherwise, coming from the open hands of his father. Money flowed everywhere it could be invested, so what would be the point in spending it on a child?

Tony pulls himself out of it. There isn't an available alcohol source for him to get royally trashed off, which is what he usually does when thinking about dear old dad.

Just white walls and white carpets and Clint Barton padding noiselessly through them.

Tony _knows_ Fury had this place designed to _piss him off specifically._ Just like the one-eyed bastard would.

The kid, still unnamed, is down on the very bottom floor. SHIELD HQ extends several hundred metres below ground, and Tony - who had a hand in the preliminary designs - knows that the bottom floor is meant for the most volatile, awful, and downright uncontrollable criminals. "Barton, should this kid be rubbing shoulders with _mass murderers?"_ Tony says as he watches Clint's thumb on the elevator buttons. "I mean, c'mon."

Clint looks uncomfortable. "I don't know. When they were deciding where to put him, Coulson and Fury had a screaming match and Coulson took a week paid leave. That means Phil lost and-"

"Dear old Saint Nicholas took matters into his own hands. _Again."_ Tony shakes his head, irritated. SHIELD - a textbook example of a totalitarian state if he ever saw one, living in fear of their terrifying oppressor.

"We'll talk to him, Tony," Bruce says.

He doesn't sound very convinced.

And the little Steve living in Tony's head is clenching his fists in righteous fury.

"Hey, guys..." Clint says with his finger on the enter of the passcode to the holding cell. Tony and Bruce turn, both with lowered views of the superspy. His eyes flicker up to the corner, where a camera buzzes in a circle around the corridor. His hands move rapidly; Tony can read sign language, and he's pretty sure Bruce can. _I'll tell you at the Tower. Unrest. Camera now._

Tony enters the cell more confused than even _he_ thought he would be.

"Heya, kid," says Clint.

The kid that Tony had first seen - God, was it yesterday? It feels like so much more - sits on the edge of a white bed, the only item of furniture in the severe room. His head is bowed, his left hand pulling the black ballpoint pen across the pages of the standard-issue SHIELD conference notebook that someone (possibly Clint) has sneaked in for him. Out of the stupid costume and the frightened eyes, the _kid_ is actually older, maybe sixteen or seventeen, although that doesn't stop him from being far too young to get caught up in this crazy underground world. His feet are bare.

They took his shoes? What was he going to _do_ with them? Are Nike sneakers really that big of an issue?

"Hi," the kid - teen - says, looking up. His eyes scan right past Clint and focus on Tony on Bruce, the brown irises getting huge. "Oh my God! Doctor Banner! Mr Stark!"

"Hello," Bruce waves a few fingers awkwardly.

"Wassup, my young truant," Tony chirps cheerfully, pushing past Clint and swinging his body up onto the desk next to the young man.

He half-expects Clint to react badly, and doesn't know why he did. "Stark, you motherfucker," Clint says with equal cheer. He waves up at the security camera, drawling sarcastically, "Oh _no,_ Mister Fury Sir Ma'am! I'm afraid the Big Bad Tony Stark overpowered my fainting pansy of a back-up and myself, so whatever happens, I'm so sorry."

Bruce shrugs. "Oh no, I'm Hulking out, call the police," he says in a monotone voice that has Tony suppressing laughter. Trust Barton.

"So... hold up, you guys aren't here to beat me up or something?" The kid swipes his conference book from the table and snaps it shut, but he no longer looks so caged. He looks _entertained._

Oh, yeah, welcome to the Stark Show, airing at seven on Saturday Night Live.

"Beat you up? Nah, just get your name. What _is_ that, by the by, while I'm here, feeling generous and likely to give whoever _owns_ that name a bunch of Stark Tech...?" Tony sees Clint roll his eyes at the blatant bribery.

But the kid seems relaxed. "Oh. I thought... I thought you thought I was doing something yesterday. I told you I didn't - whatever. Miles. I'm Miles Morales."

"Okay, cool, Miles. Hi there." Tony shoves out his hand, and, hesitant, Miles takes it. He's out of his depth in his first experience of the true intensity of Tony Stark. "So, Miles, my name is Anthony Stark, multi-billionaire, worth co-operating with me because I'll become your sugar daddy without the sex or the objectification if you just tell me, all casual, over coffee - Clint, can we get coffee down here? - Yeah, a little chat. And _his_ name is Bruce Banner and he's lived in Ho Chi Minh City for a year without causing Big Green Jelly Bean to smash a bunch of houses down. So, want to work with us a little? Or nah?"

So maybe intimidation is the wrong tactic. Miles just looks hunted. "I didn't - I swear, I would tell you if I'd done anything. But the last thing I remember is buying that Iron - I mean, buying a comic book and then going into the street. And then Captain America was yelling at me."

Thing is, Tony believes him.

He turns to Clint, about to ask something serious about what Hawkeye saw on the roof, but Clint is busy flipping the security camera in the corner off with both hands.

Miles lets out a stunned, hysterical giggle. "Oh my God. I think I'm in love with Hawkeye."

"Me and you both, man," Tony sighs over-dramatically, patting Miles on the shoulder. "Brucie-kins, you want to call Fury and tell him to get his leathery ass up to the Tower conference room? The Avengers are going to have a little meeting."

Bruce winks. "Of course, Tony. Don't do anything rash."

Clint barks with laughter. Tony just shrugs. "I make no promises."

"Nice meeting you, Miles," Bruce says, slipping out the door. "Tony's going to be fine. He's only a bit much for the first few months."

Miles smiles wanly.

Tony takes out his StarkPhone and opens the recording app. "Okay, tell me everything you remember. Start from the start. Don't leave anything out."

Miles takes a deep breath, and begins talking.

 **A.N**

 **Sorry it's a short chapter, I'll be writing a 2k+ one to be published within the weekend. It's discouraging not to get very much feedback - thank you to those who have already reviewed! - but to those ghosts reading, could I ask you to review/follow/favourite? It'll take five seconds and mean the world to my motivation, which is pitiful at best. Thanks!**


End file.
